The Whole Truth

by James Scott Bell

  “Sometimes,” Steve said quietly. He was not exactly Exhibit A in the character-formation department.

  “It’s harder than you think,” LaSalle said. “But it happens. It’s a miracle when it does. Do you know about me?”

  “Some.”

  “You know that I used to walk in the darkness?”

  “Sounds like a reasonably good summary.”

  “It’s biblical. Listen, the Word of God says if you hate your brother, you walk in the darkness. That’s what I used to be like, Steve. I hated. People who weren’t my color, I hated. People who were against me, I hated. That’s what gave my life meaning. Hate.”

  “What gives it meaning now?”

  “Jesus.”

  “Okay.”

  “You don’t believe that?”

  Steve knew only too well that hard-core prisoners often jump to Jesus as a way to show the parole board what nice little citizens they have become. As soon as they get out, many go back to their merry ways. What Would Jesus Steal?

  “Listen,” LaSalle said: “ ‘And this is the condemnation, that light is come into the world, and men loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil.’ I was in love with my evil, you see? It took a shank to the ribs to get my attention, but God got it. Boy, he dialed me direct.”

  Steve said nothing.

  “It was right here, in the infirmary, where I saw an angel of the Lord. I don’t know if I was out when it happened or wide awake. All I know is there was an angel in the room with me and he looked like, I don’t know, he looked big and perfect. Scared the living — I was scared, boy, but then he spoke to me. He said, ‘Don’t be afraid.’ Did you know angels say that right out of the box?”

  “Never talked to one myself.”

  “Yeah, they say, ‘Don’t be afraid,’ because man, you will be. But his voice calmed me down and he called me Johnny.”

  “Had your file, did he?”

  LaSalle narrowed his eyes. “This is not something to mock, my man. I’m telling you about a visit from a heavenly being, coming to me to tell me my life had been given back to me, but I had to follow the living Christ from now on. I was given a choice, don’t you see? And I knew even if I stayed in prison the rest of my life, I was going to follow Jesus. Right there in that bed I confessed the name of Jesus to the angel.”

  “Is that all you confessed?”

  “Don’t you believe me?”

  “Sure.” The word didn’t sound the least bit convincing, not even to Steve.

  “Then spake Jesus again unto them, saying, I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.”

  Steve placed his palms on the desk for emphasis. “Mr. LaSalle, let me give you one more shot at this. Why did you call me up here?”

  “To save you.”

  “To save me?”

  Johnny LaSalle nodded.

  “I don’t need saving,” Steve said.

  “You know you do.” LaSalle’s eyes burned with an inner fire, like a prophet or madman or murderer. Maybe he was all three.

  Steve put his legal pad back in his briefcase, snapped it shut.

  “You do need to be saved,” LaSalle said. “I know it.”

  Steve turned to the desk guard. “I’m through here.”

  “And now, behold, the hand of the Lord is upon thee, and thou shalt be blind, not seeing the sun for a season.”

  The guard picked up the phone and said something.

  Steve started to get up.

  “Don’t go!” LaSalle said.

  “Good luck.”

  The interior door opened and the same deputy returned, looking like he’d just been disturbed from a nap.

  Steve was on his feet when LaSalle said, “You won’t stay and talk to your own brother?”

  The deputy approached LaSalle.

  “Wait a second,” Steve said. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Your brother. He was lost. And now is found.”

  Steve’s chest tightened. The fact that this man would say that, that he knew Steve had a brother at all, needed explanation.

  “I’m here for the prisoner,” the deputy said.

  “I’m not through,” Steve said.

  “You called it,” the desk deputy said. “That’s it.” He started unlocking Johnny LaSalle’s desk cuffs.

  LaSalle said nothing, but his face was almost glowing.

  “You’re one sick puppy,” Steve said.

  “You just finding that out?” the escort deputy said with a laugh. He pulled LaSalle to his feet. The shackles jangled like loose change.

  “Don’t believe them, Steve,” LaSalle said. “I bless the entire world. I need you.” Just before he turned his back he added, “My true name is Robert Conroy. I am your brother!”

  SIX

  The next few moments passed like a slow-motion death scene. The deputy got LaSalle out the door, closed it, and all the while Steve stood mute. Like a statue named Stupid.

  What had just happened? A prisoner calls him for an interview and knows about his dead brother? Not just that, invokes the name for himself?

  That meant this guy had done research, actual research on him. Or had the information fed to him by another. But what sense did that make?

  “Have a nice day,” the desk deputy said.

  Steve was a cocktail of rage and sorrow and dark memories. The butt of a sick joke.

  But why would this guy do it? Why go to all that trouble to put the needle in like that?

  As Steve stumbled out, all the old memories flooding back, he knew it would be a long drive back to the Valley. He would be thinking of relief all the way, how he used to handle situations like this in the past.

  He hit the speed dial as he drove. For his sponsor. Needed him right now.

  Gincy answered. “Hey, what’s up?”

  “You are not going to believe this one,” Steve said.

  “Try me.”

  His open invitation to talk, and his promise to listen. That’s what he was good at.

  Gincy Farguson, his Cocaine Anonymous sponsor, was a former Las Vegas dancer turned body builder and gardening enthusiast. During daylight hours, Gincy installed and ser viced home fitness equipment, then volunteered his time helping at-risk youth at a big church in Tarzana.

  At forty, Gincy had lines etched in his face that read like a relief map of an improbably hard life. He’d come from a little town in Georgia, where his father had become the first African American in the county fire department. A father who died in a blaze when Gincy was ten. That was the main reason, Steve decided, that they hit it off. Both were from the brotherhood of the fatherless.

  Gincy’s big mistake was going for the glamour instead of the gold. “I could have had a job with the fire department myself,” he told Steve once. “But I wanted a different kind of light and heat.”

  Landing in Vegas, Gincy discovered he had been granted two things “by the hand of God.” An almost perfect body and the ability to move it. With his movie-star looks — his nickname among the dancers was Denzel — it wasn’t long before he landed in the chorus of a Las Vegas revue that went on for seven years.

  Which was more than enough time for Gincy to fall into the gaping maw of the high life. As one of the few straight male dancers on the Strip, he had his pick of the female contingent. And because of his natural gregariousness, Gincy got to be a favorite on the party circuit. Cocaine became his drug of choice.

  It got so bad he was burning through his salary every month, then having to borrow, and finally having to borrow from the wrong people. Of which there are plenty in Las Vegas.

  The debt got too high. One night Gincy was picked up by a couple of thugs and ended up with two broken legs.

  No more dancing for Gincy Farguson.

  It was while he was in the county hospital that he had what he called a vision. When pressed he said it could have been just a very vivid dream, but it didn’t matter. It was st
ill as real to him as a live performance of Chicago.

  In the vision he saw his father walking through flames. But the man wasn’t burning. He was actually calm and calling out, “Get out of the fire, Gincy! Get out of the fire!”

  When Gincy woke up, he was on the other side of belief. Still in leg casts, he checked himself into the addiction unit of the hospital and began the hard road to sobriety. And faith.

  It was fine with Steve, the faith part, as long as Gincy was there when he needed him. Like now.

  “I’ve just been out to the prison at Fenton,” Steve said, holding the phone to his left ear and steering with his other hand. “A guy pulled a weird one on me. Claimed to be my brother.”

  Pause, then Gincy said, “That is weird. Why would he do that?”

  “No idea. It threw me. I’m buzzing like a wire.”

  “All right, all right. Let’s get to a meeting.”

  “I can’t right now. I have a closing on Monday. I have to focus.”

  “You can’t if you’re feeling this way. Meet me at my place.”

  “Later. Work first. I just needed to hear your voice. I need you to tell me you’ll slap me around if I even think about getting high.”

  “Are you thinking about it now?”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “Okay. Listen to me. I am going to slap you. I am going to slap you hard. Right now. Smack! Did you feel it?”

  “Ouch.”

  “Good. Now come to my place and — ”

  “I’ll call you later. Maybe you can do that thing you do.”

  “What thing?”

  “Pray.”

  “Always. But you don’t believe it.”

  “No, but the vibes. Maybe the vibes do something. I’ll take it. At this point, I’ll take anything.”

  SEVEN

  He got back to his office around one. Blasting a little R.E.M. on the way helped push out thoughts of what had happened at Fenton. Also got his juices flowing, so maybe he could really get ready for the fight on Monday morning. Spin some closing argument gold out of the lousy legal straw he had to work with.

  He walked into his office and found it immaculate.

  Sienna Ciccone was at the metal filing cabinet, putting some folders away.

  “Hi,” she said.

  Like it was the most understandable thing in the world. “How’d you even get in here?”

  “New locks, remember? New keys? I took one.”

  “Why?”

  “You hired me. I wanted to — ”

  “No,” Steve said. “I told you I couldn’t hire you, remember? No funds.”

  “What happened to that ten-thousand-dollar client?”

  She wore tan slacks and a casual white blouse. It was more than a little strange to be sharing a small space with a woman again, even if she was just a law student. Suddenly Steve felt shy.

  He put his briefcase on the front desk. “Sienna, I appreciate what you’ve done. But it’s Saturday. You shouldn’t be — ”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Listen. I’m not going to be getting any ten thousand.”

  “What’s up with that?”

  “The guy, LaSalle, he just wanted to mess with me.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I mean, what’d he say?”

  “It was just a big joke.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Why should I tell you anything?” Steve’s shyness turned to heat. It came on like a flash and he didn’t care to cool down. “I didn’t ask you to do this, to be here.”

  “Hey, I thought I helped get you the gig. I thought maybe I’d like to hear about it.”

  “Well, think again.”

  She nodded at him, tight lipped, then grabbed her purse and started out.

  “Wait a second,” Steve said.

  “Why?”

  “Just hold on.” He sighed to gather his thoughts. “I’m sorry. Look, sit down a minute. I guess I owe you an explanation. In addition to the money.”

  She hesitated, then sat in the chair behind the front desk. Steve took a deep breath. He hadn’t told anyone the story in years. He didn’t know why he should tell her. Other than that he didn’t want her to go.

  “When I was a kid my brother got kidnapped. I was five. Two men came in our room and took him.”

  Her stunned expression didn’t need words.

  “A couple weeks later they tracked one of the guys. He was some sort of a religious wacko, had a small following. He was living in a shack in the mountains, had Robert with him. That was my brother’s name, Robert. When they closed in he set fire to the place rather than get taken. They found two bodies in there, had to ID them by dental records. It was Robert and this guy, a guy named Cole.”

  “How awful for you.”

  “The night he was taken, one of the kidnappers told me if I said anything or made a noise, they’d kill Robert. And me. I believed him. But because I didn’t say anything, they had plenty of time to get away. My dad never forgave me. He ended up shooting himself.”

  Sienna looked down.

  “So this guy at the prison, LaSalle, finds out about me, has me come all the way out there, and get this, tells me he’s my brother.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “You tell me. Maybe it’s a way for some ex-client of mine to get back at me. You know about me?”

  “Other than what?”

  “You know I was suspended for a cocaine addiction?”

  “I didn’t know,” she said evenly.

  “So now you do. And I’m going to sit here today and shake and try to prepare a closing argument. And maybe in my dreams it’ll come to me why some slime in state prison wants to jerk me around and say he’s my brother.”

  Sienna leaned forward. “Is it possible he might be your brother?”

  “No.”

  “Wilder things have happened.”

  “Not this wild. I looked at him. I — ” Suddenly he wasn’t sure. And he was angry about it. What was this law school irritant doing by suggesting the impossible? “Why don’t you run along. I’ll get you your money — ”

  “Maybe we should research this a little — ”

  “No.” Steve slapped the table. “It’s just digging up what I want buried.”

  “But — ”

  “Just go, will you? Just get out of here.”

  “Won’t you please — ”

  “Get out. You’re . . . fired.” Steve felt like a bad Donald Trump imitation, if there ever could be such a thing.

  “I was never hired, sir.” Sienna looped her purse over her shoulder and started to leave. She stopped, reached into her purse, and took something out. She tossed it on the glass-topped desk, where it pinged to rest. It was a key.

  She left without another word.

  Steve picked up the key, looked at it. Then threw it as hard as he could at the far wall. It made a mark, one he could see from all the way across the office. That’s what you’re good at, boy. Throwing stuff, making marks on walls and people. Keep it up.

  He saw the face of Johnny LaSalle in his mind and wished he could throw something at it. Make it go away.

  EIGHT

  Monday morning Steve gave his closing argument in the case of People v. Carlos Mendez.

  Moira Hanson preceded him, laying out the devastating facts that made Mendez out to be the proverbial toast. Steve had to admit she was good. Poised and professional. A little cold perhaps, but a DDA could get away with that.

  Not so the defense lawyer. As Steve got ready to make his argument he kept thinking about the old saying, supposedly uttered by Abraham Lincoln himself. When the law is against you, argue the facts. When the facts are against you, argue the law. When both are against you, pound the table and shout for justice!

  Facing the jury, Steve thought Honest Abe knew what he was talking about. And as he had no facts or law on his side to speak of, he was going to start pounding the table.

  He was sim
ply going to persuade. That was the lawyer’s bottom line, after all. You persuaded, you did the best with what you had. As his crim-law prof had said that first year, if you find a nit you pick it. And that was how you “make a noise like a lawyer.”

  Could he still do it? Could he marshal all his inner resources and put them to work to change minds? For weeks he had kicked the dogs of self-loathing back. They always seemed to bay and snap before and during trial. Now was the final shot, and he told himself to give it everything. Make a noise like a lawyer. At least show the client he was getting his money’s worth.

  Which, considering Steve hadn’t been paid yet, was a lot.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, when you took your oath as jurors, you swore to do your duty to see that justice is done. You did not swear to listen only to the prosecutor, or me, or even to the judge alone. You stand in the most important position possible for a citizen in our country. You stand between the awful power of the State and a man who is presumed innocent. That is your role in our system of justice.”

  Steve looked at the jurors for a face to connect with. Number six, a forty-year-old woman who worked for BlueCross insurance, nodded slightly.

  “That means you must hold the prosecution to its burden of proof,” he said to number seven. “That’s a great big burden too. Beyond a reasonable doubt. You know what that’s like?”

  Steve walked to the prosecutor’s table, where Moira Hanson was wearing her best skeptic’s expression for the jurors. “It’s like there’s a great, big boulder sitting here on the prosecution table. Can you see it?” He pantomimed feeling the contours of a gigantic rock.

  “It’s here, and Ms. Hanson can’t just chip away at it, which she tried to do in her summation. No, she can’t leave any of it on the table. Not even little pebbles. The rock is still here.”

  He smiled at the DDA. She glared back. She hadn’t been a happy camper when the judge decided to use the traditional jury instructions, called CALJIC. There’d been a revamping of instructions in California, to make them more “user friendly,” but some judges were sticking with the tried and true.

  Which is what Steve knew best. He turned to the jury once again and said, “And you must also remember that you are the sole judges of the facts. And the testimony. Did you know you don’t have to believe a police officer just because he sits in that witness chair? Police make mistakes too. Let’s talk about that.”